


The Quartz Key

by chains_archivist



Category: The Key Game (Official)
Genre: Boys in Chains, Key Game, M/M, Slaves, Work In Progress, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Lianne Burwell</p><p> A Prince's heir and a desert chieftain made slave are thrown together and must survive treachery... and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).  
> \--  
> Title: The Quartz Key (WIP)  
> Author: Lianne Burwell  
> Fandom: Yaoi Key fic   
> Pairing: Nemir/Judas  
> Rating: currently PG-13  
> Warning: None  
> Summary: A Prince's heir and a desert chieftain made slave are thrown together and must survive treachery... and each other.

The Prince of the city of Ajantha entered the House of Kemel, surrounded by his guards and retainers, but with very little fanfare. Two guards moved to block the doors behind them, while the rest fanned out to protect their Prince from any threat that might appear. They did not expect trouble, since while not well-loved, their prince *was* well-respected, but they were ever-vigilant in their duties.  
  
The employees of the house immediately descended on him like a pack of dogs rolling over to bare their bellies and necks before the alpha dog. The Prince stared down his long hooked nose at the fawning mass, his lips curled into an expression of disgust. While he expected the respect and deference due to his position, he loathed obsequiousness. Unfortunately, it was something he encountered every day.  
  
There was a sharp handclap, and the servants melted away, bowing -- and in more than one case almost crawling -- as they backed up. To turn their back on the Prince would have been a disrespect punishable by a flogging.  
  
The overweight, richly-dressed man hurrying towards them was obviously Kemel, the owner of the establishment. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard. He was in need of some good, honest exercise, the Prince thought to himself with a sneer. Kemel spent to much time being waited on, obviously. The Prince, however, had been trained as a soldier in his youth and still sparred regularly to maintain an impressive build.  
  
"My Prince, you honor my establishment with your glorious presence," the man said breathlessly as he came to a stop, bowing low in the flamboyant manner that was currently the rage in court.  
  
"Indeed," the Prince said dryly. Of course he was honored; a Prince spent more money than a commoner. As well, saying that a Prince frequented your establishment was the best sort of advertising.  
  
"How can we serve your royal self?" the man asked, bowing yet again, practically groveling. The Prince was tempted to just kill the worm, but unfortunately, he was supplier of the finest merchandise in the city. Merchandise that in this case was important enough to bring the Prince out in person instead of simply summoning the man to the palace.  
  
"I need an... item. One that matches a very specific list of requirements."  
  
The Prince glanced around, pointedly, at the small crowd of employees still watching intently from the corners of the room. It wasn't every day that someone of royal rank came to the House of Kemel, and they obviously hoped to find out why. There were plenty who would pay highly for such gossip.  
  
Quickly understanding the meaning of the Prince's look, Kemel finally straightened up and waved his people away. "What are your requirements, Glory?"  
  
"A slave. Noble-born, preferably. Attractive, naturally, between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Male."  
  
"Bed companion?" Kemel asked, suddenly all business. His voice sharpened, and the Prince smiled. The slaver was not as foolish as he liked to pretend. Suddenly, he found himself almost respecting the man. Almost.  
  
"Yes. But more importantly, a confidante, a companion."  
  
"For yourself?"  
  
"My son."  
  
"We have a noblewoman from the north..."  
  
"Male," he repeated. That surprised the slaver, he could see, but while he was willing to be... flexible on the other items, that was one requirement that he was not going to back down on.  
  
Kemel was silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he considered the possibilities.  
  
Finally he gestured towards a door. "Come with me, my Prince. I do not know if I can exactly match your requirements, but I do have one possibility." The Prince nodded for the man to proceed, even though it would mean turning his back on his Prince, and followed as the plump man lead the way. "He is a recent acquisition, from east of here. The grandson of a desert chieftain. His younger brother sold him to one of my agents when the old man died," the man said as he went.  
  
"I take it that the older brother was to inherit?" It was an interesting way to dispose of a rival. Usually, he would expect the deposed brother to be killed to prevent him from coming back to try to reclaim his place.  
  
"Yes, in a manner of speaking. However, he is... unusual for his kind. An albino, but without the pink eyes. Because of that, he cannot not go out in sunlight. It would have been impossible for him to function as chieftain, despite his grandfather's wishes. He even stepped aside in favor of his brother, but if he stayed, it would have divided the tribe, according to my agent. That's why the younger brother sold him rather than kill him. It was necessary to get rid of him, but he didn't have the heart to harm the boy, even though there were those close to him that wanted the brother dead."  
  
The Prince nodded. An entertaining tale. However, "A desert barbarian, even the heir of a chieftain, is hardly what I would call noble-born," he pointed out.  
  
"He is actually quite well-schooled, my Prince. Literate and as well-read as a nomad can be. His grandfather indulged his scholarly leanings. He is very graceful as well, although with no training in the dance. However, he does have a bit of a temper when pushed. We planned to train him for a few more months to make him a little more docile before selling him. Also," the man added persuasively, "he is, as yet, a virgin."  
  
The Prince raised an eyebrow. "How old?"  
  
"Just short of nineteen."  
  
The Prince snorted softly. "I did not realize that you could reach that age and still be a virgin."  
  
Kemel shrugged. "His strange looks made his people consider him possibly demon-sired. Between that and an overprotective grandfather..."  
  
The Prince nodded. This could actually work to his advantage. A virgin might be more controllable. As well, someone who'd been a target of his own people before being cast out would be grateful for a place and protection. Yes, this one sounded like he had potential. "Show me him."  
  
Kemel nodded and led the way to a narrow stairway. The Prince motioned one guard to follow, but indicated that the rest should remain behind. The captain looked upset, but nodded his obedience.  
  
The stairway was steep and narrow, and led to an equally narrow hallway, lined with lacy panels on either side. The Prince stopped and looked through them.  
  
To each side was a series of rooms. They were all quite simple, with a pile of cushions in one corner, a few objects for the occupants to entertain themselves with and the occasional mosaic or tapestry to add interest to dull, white-washed walls.  
  
In the first room, an elegant woman with the slanted eyes and yellow skin of the far east reclined on her pile of cushions, playing a soft melody on a stringed instrument sitting on her lap. The tune was haunting and unlike any that the Prince had heard before. He watched her hands moved and could easily imagine them moving equally skillfully over an instrument of a different sort. His own instrument swelled at the thought, and he quickly controlled himself.  
  
"They cannot see us through the screens," Kemel said softly as he led his client on. The Prince smiled, realizing the truth of the statement. If the occupants were to look up at just the right moment, all they would be able to see was a dim outline. As well, the screen would no doubt muffle their voices. It was a very clever arrangement.  
  
Halfway down the hall, Kemel stopped and gestured towards the left. Stepping close to the screen, the Prince looked down into the room.  
  
Like the other rooms he'd noticed in passing, this one was sparsely decorated. The only furniture -- if you could call it that -- was a pile of cushions that appeared to serve duty as both a seat and a bed. In a corner was a small covered chamber pot, amusingly made from fine silver, he noticed, amused. The outside wall was covered with a large tapestry that depicted an angel and a demon engaged in a battle that was more erotic than violent.  
  
The slave was pacing his chamber, not impatiently, but more from boredom, the Prince thought. As Kemel had said, the young man showed great grace. If trained properly, he would be the finest of dancers. Or warriors. It might even be worth training him -- in secret, of course -- to be a bodyguard for his son as well, since no assassin would think a bedslave worth guarding against.  
  
He wore mostly black; full pants with a high-necked tunic over it, glistening with black on black decoration. It served to emphasize the pallor of his skin, which was almost completely without color, like an albino. And his hair. It was white, but when the light hit it just right, it seemed to shimmer a light... pink? Darker near the roots. Whatever the cause, the result was beautiful and exotic, just like the boy.  
  
"Yes," the Prince said, almost a sigh. "He does not look like a desert barbarian at all."  
  
At the softly-spoken comment, the young man looked upwards, somehow having heard them. The Prince met his eyes and fought the urge to gasp. Albinos always had pink eyes, but this boy's eyes were a silver that almost glowed in the soft lamp-light. For a moment, he was sure that the boy could see him clearly. But them he turned away and dropped on his pile of black and silver pillows. He curled up on them in a way that would seem almost calculated to entice if he were not so obviously innocent.  
  
The Prince smiled to himself. Perfect.  
  
Staying silent, Kemel gestured the Prince to follow him to the end of the hallway, where a door led to the man's private offices.  
  
The Prince sat, while Kemel, of course, remained standing. "You say he has a temper?"  
  
"As the son of a chieftain, he is not accustomed to taking orders. When pushed, he pushes back. However, because of his brother's actions, he is also given to bouts of depression."  
  
The Prince's satisfaction grew. Argumentative enough to challenge Nemir, but vulnerable enough to appeal to a young man's romantic and protective instincts.  
  
"I will take him. My majordomo will collect him at sunset, since you said that he is sensitive to light. I trust that this will suffice?"  
  
Kemel's eyes went wide as the Prince casually tossed him a small velvet bag. Inside were five gemstones of the highest quality. "It is far to much," he stammered, despite the greed in his eyes.  
  
The Prince waved the comment away. "In return, I expect you to be discreet. Full details of the boy's origins are to be kept confidential. However, if anyone asks -- and I am sure they will -- I will name you as the source of the boy."  
  
Kemel preened at the implied praise, as well as the promise. The name of his House on the lips of the Prince would bring him a great deal of new business.  
  
"I will do as you ask," he said, bowing low. "The boy and his possessions will be ready when your majordomo arrived."  
  
"Good."  
  
Business concluded, the Prince got to his feet and allowed the slaver to lead him back down to the foyer. The easy part -- finding an appropriate slave for his son -- was complete.  
  
More difficult would be getting the boy to *accept* his new slave.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Nemir rode his stallion through the gates into the courtyard of his father's palace and allowed a groom to take the reins while he climbed down. Then he reclaimed the reins and led his mount towards the stables. Most nobles in his age group would have simply handed the beast over to the servants to tend to until the next time he wanted to ride, but Nemir was not typical. Like his father before him, he was trained as a soldier and he preferred to take care of his horse, his weapons and his armor himself.  
  
The stables of the Prince of Ajantha were famed throughout the land for both its size and the quality of its beasts. Only the finest of thoroughbreds were fit for the royal stables. Thoroughbreds like Sirocco, Nemir's personal mount.  
  
He led the blood red stallion into his box stall and set to removing the saddle and tack, setting the fine leather aside to clean later. Then he took up a scraper and went about removing the layer of sweat and desert sand that dulled the stallion's normally bright coat.  
  
There was a barely polite cough from the stall's door. "What?" he barked, not stopping his grooming efforts or turning around.  
  
"My Lord, the Prince has commanded your presence as soon as you returned to the Palace."  
  
Nemir nodded, glancing at the messenger just long enough to see the man's expression of disdain. He recognized him as one of the minor nobles who infested his father's court, doing as little as possible while trying to curry favor with the Prince. "I will attend him as soon as I have cleaned from my journey."  
  
"Forgive me, my Lord," the man said, not sounding sorry at all, "but the Prince requires your presence first. The dust of the road does not offend him." The man bowed and backed away, his expression clearly saying that it *did* offend *him*.  
  
Nemir frowned, but carefully did not allow his displeasure to upset his stallion. His father might not care that he was still covered with the sweat and dust of several days' travel, but *he* did. After two weeks of inspecting the forts that guarded Ajantha's borders with adjoining princedoms, Nemir had been looking forward to a cool bath and perhaps some sleep before reporting to his father.  
  
Still, the Prince commanded his presence, so he would obey. He finished grooming Sirocco, then covered him with a light blanket. He picked up his saddlebags and tossed them over his shoulder, then headed for the palace, pausing only long enough to give orders to a stable boy on the feed for his horse and the cleaning of his tack. He would return later to make sure that his orders were followed properly.  
  
The messenger was waiting for him outside the stable doors, his nose pinched with displeasure and a perfumed cloth raised to block the natural aromas of the stable. Nemir sneered at the man's pretentious clothing and attitude, but said nothing as the man led the way to his father's study.   
  
He knew the way already, but obviously he was not trusted to follow orders, Nemir fumed silently as he walked down hallways tiled with marble. The walls on either side were covered with bright frescoes that showed the history of Ajantha in all its glory. He took some small pleasure in the trail of dirt that he knew he was leaving in his wake, even though the only ones who would suffer as a result were the servants who would have to clean the floors later.  
  
The messenger stopped outside the carved and gold-leafed doors to the Prince's private study. He pushed the double doors opened and dropped to one knee. "Your Glory, the Lord Nemir," he said in an unctuous tone. Then he rose to his feet and backed away to allow Nemir past before shutting the doors.  
  
Nemir bowed to the angle required. "My Prince," he said. He lifted his head to regard his father.  
  
The Prince of Ajantha was dressed simply in a tunic and leather pants, like the retired soldier that he was. However, the pants were of the finest leather, dyed the deepest of black, and the tunic of rare silk, dyed the indigo blue of the house of Ajantha and covered with embroidery picked out in silver with inlaid gemstones that sparkled in the lamp-light.  
  
And unlike most nobles of his age, the Prince was lean and well-muscled, thanks to daily practice with sword and bow. He also still rode like the soldier he'd been in his youth, the soldier his son now was. His hair was still a glossy black, cut short. His skin was unfashionably tanned and his face could never be considered more than distinctive with its sharp chin and prominent nose, narrow and hooked, looking like it would suit a hawk better.  
  
The Prince did not look angry, which confused Nemir. While he did not recall doing anything that might have angered his father, he could think of no other reason why he would have been summoned without even being allowed the time to wash and change his clothing.  
  
"Nemir," his father said with a small smile and nod. "I have news for you." His tone was warm, but with a note...  
  
Nemir stiffened. While that did not seem threatening, his instincts said that he was not going to like the news. "I am yours to command, my Prince."  
  
"The Prince of Mathan has been in contact with me." Mathan, Nemir knew, was one of the largest princedom's adjoining Ajantha, and one with which they had a long and antagonistic history. "He has a daughter."  
  
Nemir's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. "Father--"  
  
"No," the Prince interrupted, holding up a hand to forestall the expected protests. "It was inevitable that you would need to marry, and equally inevitable that it would be for political reasons, as I did. Your duty as a future prince to this city requires it, and you *will* submit."  
  
Then his expression softened. "However, the girl is only twelve, so you will have five more years of freedom before you must bind yourself to her and only her.  
  
"But that does not mean complete freedom," he cautioned as Nemir breathed a slight sigh of relief. "You are my heir, which means you must take care. And above all, you must not endanger the line of succession. For the last eight years, you have been a soldier, devoting yourself to the way of the Warrior. Now it is time for you to learn the way of the Prince."  
  
Nemir lowered his head in submission, not letting his anguish show. He had known that this day would come, but he had always told himself not yet. It seemed, however, that 'not yet' had become 'now.' "As you say, my Prince."  
  
"There are those who would use you, my son. Now, more than ever. There have been rumors of discord among the nobles. They will seek favor with you, thinking you easy to manipulate." The Prince smiled at the outrage in his son's face. "They think wrong, of course. However..." His face hardened. "One thing becomes paramount now. The line of succession must be kept certain."  
  
"I do not understand?" Nemir said, puzzled by his father's roundabout comments.  
  
"As heir, you will be sought by many, including the daughters of those nobles who would manipulate you. They will attempt to draw you to their beds, to reach your ear. And if that does not work, they will seek to conceive a child that could be used against you. Or to replace you, if they can. That cannot be allowed."  
  
The Prince tapped lightly on his desk made of imported ebony. "There can be no bastards to endanger the throne, therefore you will go to your marriage bed a virgin to women. If I discover that you have broken this rule, whether the girl is noble or slave or any rank between, *she* will suffer for your indiscretion."  
  
He regarded his son with sympathy. "That does not mean that you need to be a virgin altogether. Indeed, I doubt that you are a virgin now." Nemir flushed, remembering nights where brother warriors shared bedrolls and more. No, no virgin he.  
  
"However, that does not mean that the nobles of the court might not use their sons to control you either. So, I have dealt with that as well.  
  
"When you return to your chambers, you will find a new slave waiting for you. He is foreign, but high born, from the desert tribes. You will train him as your valet. You will also train him to fight. He has a great deal of raw potential, I think. He will also be the only one to share your bed. He will be your constant companion until the day you go to the marriage altar."  
  
Nemir opened his mouth, but could not find the words to express his anger. How could his father order *this*?  
  
"And before you can protest, there is no changing my mind. You cannot dispose of the boy to suit you, I have told him that. At the end of five years, when you marry, he will be freed and the two of you will decide his place, here or elsewhere, then."  
  
The Prince smiled softly. "And this need not be a punishment," he said. "If you embrace this wholeheartedly, this boy will be to you as Konda is to me."  
  
That sharpened Nemir's gaze. Konda was his father's friend and closest confident, as well as captain of the palace guard. The Prince nodded. "When I was brought home to learn the arts of governance from *my* father, Konda was presented to me in the same way, although he was a new guard rather than a slave. And it was the same for my father and his grandfather before him. And so it will be for your son someday."  
  
Nemir bowed his head. "I do not like it..." he said.  
  
"But you will obey," his father finished for him, sympathetically. "Now, I suggest that you go meet your new companion. And Nemir?"  
  
Nemir paused at the door. "Yes, my Prince?" he ground out.  
  
"I trust you not to punish the boy for what is beyond his control."  
  
Nemir nodded curtly, then stomped down the hallway, heading for the royal quarters.  
  
His father had him in a position where he could do nothing. It was not in him to defy orders that would result in punishment for others, and he would not harm the slave, who was innocent in this.  
  
However, that did *not* mean that he had to embrace the boy the way his father wanted. The boy could follow him around, if that was what was necessary, but he did not need to accept him or even acknowledge him. He certainly had not intention of training a slave in how to fight!  
  
And as for his bed, it would remain cold if need be. He had no desire to take a slave to his bed simply because it was his only choice. He would remain celibate, if that was his only other choice.


	3. Chapter 3

Judas stood back and watched as the palace servants prepared the suite for the return of their -- and now his - - master, trying very hard not to tremble as he prepared for the third major upheaval of his life. Trembling was a weakness, and weaknesses could be used against him. He'd been warned not to show any weakness to the Prince's son, by the Prince himself, no less.  
  
The first upheaval in his life had been expected, and if anything, he was surprised that it had not occurred years earlier. It had started with the death of his grandfather, Chief of the Tribe of the Sands, and ending with his expulsion from the tribe.  
  
His grandfather had been a proud man who had been forced to watch as each of his children had died before him, from illness, battle wounds, and, in one case, treachery, until of seven sons and daughters, only the youngest remained. He had doted on her as she grew up, and when the time had come, he had broken tradition and allowed her to choose her own husband, a handsome and daring young warrior of the tribe. When she had quickly become pregnant, the entire tribe had celebrated.  
  
But less than a year later, they were grieving. First, the handsome young warrior had died in a raid on a rival tribe's herds. Then, a month later, the Chief's daughter had died birthing twin sons.  
  
The younger, Jamal, had been everything a tribe could hope for: large and lusty, with dark hair, bright eyes and dusky skin.  
  
Judas, on the other hand, had inspired fear and suspicion. His white skin started to burn the moment it was exposed to direct sunlight. His hair and eyes were colors never seen before in the tribe. And the birthmarks on his forearms reminded even the least superstitious among them of bat wings. As he grew, his height and slender build set him even further apart from his short and stocky brother. By the time of his grandfather's death, the majority of the tribe considered his at best an ill-omen, and at worst, demon-spawned.  
  
But his grandfather had ignored the whispers. Perhaps he never heard them at all. Whatever the reason, he was determined that Judas, as eldest, would become Chief after him. Everyone knew that this was impossible, Judas included, but the elderly man had been insistent. However, on his death, Judas had immediately stepped aside in favor of his brother. His brother was not shackled by rumors and fears. Jamal was not forced to remain inside tents during the day. Jamal was a warrior, respected and loved by his people.  
  
In other words, Jamal was everything that Judas was not.  
  
But still the whispering continued, even after Jamal was acclaimed, and the whispers grew in numbers and volume until Judas had resigned himself to a seemingly inevitable death. Jamal was doing everything he could, but in the end, if he did not reject his brother, he risked the tribe turning on him as well.  
  
It was into this volatile situation that the slaver arrived. The next day, when he left, he took Judas with him, carrying a small chest that had belonged to his mother containing all that was left to him in this world. Jamal had explained to him, tears rolling down his handsome face.  
  
The slaver worked for a man named Kemel. This Kemel, he said, dealt in the finest merchandise. His slaves were bought by nobles seeking concubines that were beautiful and exotic, who lived pampered lives. The picture he painted was one of luxurious ease, and while Judas was skeptical, his brother saw this as his only chance to save his much loved brother.  
  
And so he had come to the city of Ajantha and the House of Kemel. He'd quickly been evaluated as promising and placed in seclusion. For an extended period -- he was not sure how long, although certainly more than a month -- the only persons he'd seen were Kemel twice and the trainers he had assigned to Judas's training. He was drilled in the basics of dance, and he had been told that while he was graceful, it would be years before they considered him a *true* dancer. Similar evaluations had come from his music instructors. He could pluck a simple song on a guitar or harp, but not much more as yet.  
  
Based on their words, he expected to spend months, if not years, being trained into what they wanted him to be, and he had resigned himself once more, this time to his new life. Perhaps he would even come to enjoy this new life, although for now, he missed the clean dry air of the desert and the constant hum of the voices of the tribe outside his tent.  
  
But he hadn't been given time to adjust. He'd been waiting for the next of his trainers to come break the monotony of his day when Kemel had arrived, followed by a stranger. He'd been sold, he was informed with great pride. Sold to the Prince of the city, no less. Before he could grasp the news, he'd been hurried out of the establishment and into a carriage, carrying only his small wooden chest. The man in the carriage with him had remained silent during the short trip to the palace, and Judas had been too stunned to try to ask the questions running through his mind.  
  
Once at the palace, he'd been brought into the presence of the Prince. Following the training that had been drilled into him in his first days at Kemel's, Judas had dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the cool marble tiles.  
  
The Prince had ordered all others to leave, then had told Judas to sit up.  
  
"I have bought you for my son," he had informed Judas. "You are to be his most constant companion until his wedding day. On that day, you will be freed and given more than enough wealth to support you the rest of your days should you choose to leave him. You will entertain him, listen to him, guard him. And you will be his only bed companion, if he so chooses. If he does not choose so, you will watch to make sure he takes no others to bed. But understand this. *I* own you. He cannot send you away, and if I learn that you have shirked in your duties, it is *I* who will punish you. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes," Judas had replied, proud that there was no tremor in his voice.  
  
"Good." The Prince's voice had softened then. "It will not be too onerous a burden, I think. Nemir is a good man. But there are things you should know about him. He does not mind weakness in a person, so long as no show is made of it. Be everything you can and he will accept you. Pretend to be less than you are and he will despise you. Be honest with him in all respects, even if it is to disagree with him, and he will respect you.  
  
"Now, Nemir is currently inspecting the border forts. When he returns, he will be taking up permanent residence here at the palace. He has been training as a soldier up until now. Now it is time for him to train as a Prince. Until his arrival, you will remain in his suite. You will not leave the suite except in his company. In the meantime, I will have books sent, since I understand that you read, as well as a wardrobe befitting the heir's companion."  
  
He had paused and regarded Judas for a moment before smiling. "You will do quite well, I think. Do not disappoint me."  
  
After that dismissal, Judas had been escorted to these rooms and had remained there. That had been the second upheaval in his life, leaving the tight, but comfortable confines of the House of Kemel from the palace of the Prince. Now, the third would come, the man to whom he was now bound for the next five years, regardless of the choices of *either* of them.  
  
There was a disturbance in the halls, and all the servants dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Judas knelt as well, but remembering the Prince's warnings, he did not prostrate himself like the others, settling for just dropping his gaze to the floor as the door opened.  
  
He kept his eyes down as he heard a muffled thud of something heavy hit the floor, then footsteps coming his way. He kept his eyes lowered but his back straight as a pair of scuffed and dirty boots came to a rest in front of him.  
  
He waited, but the boots didn't move and their owner didn't speak. He did his best to remain calm, but his pride prickled at the deliberate insult. Finally, he refused to wait any longer for acknowledgement. He looked up.  
  
Nemir, heir to the throne of Ajantha was a handsome man, but not exactly what he'd expected. He looked to be at most a year older than Judas. Like his father, he did not look much like nobility. His naturally dark skin was tanned even darker by sun and wind, and looked as tough as leather. There were creases around his eyes from squinting, and Judas could see the signs of calluses on his hands. His travelling leathers were stained and covered with dust. Judas felt more than a little over-dressed in his black-on- black silk tunic and pants.  
  
And Nemir reminded him painfully of his brother, cut from the same cloth.  
  
"I don't want you here." Nemir's voice was deep and dry, with a hint of anger underneath. There was more there, but Judas couldn't interpret it. He was good at reading people, but not someone he'd just met, if you could even say that they'd *met*.  
  
"Neither of us has much chose in the matter," he said softly.  
  
"I can find my own lovers."  
  
"If you do, I'll be the one who suffers for it." But the question was, did Nemir care? The young man's flinch reassured him.  
  
"I don't want you in my bed." He was sounding belligerent now, suddenly seeming much younger than his years.  
  
"I have a pallet," he replied, nodding at the thin mattress in the corner with its pillow and cover. A slave's bed, yet ironically more comfortable than any bed he slept on growing up in the desert.  
  
Nemir stared at him for a long moment until Judas was fighting the urge to fidget, to strike back, then nodded. "Good. Just as long as we understand each other." Then he turned away, seeming to dismiss Judas from his mind, and headed over to grab his saddlebags from where he'd dropped them. Judas sat and watched as the man started to unpack, wondering what he was supposed to do now.  
  
It was going to be a long five years.


	4. Chapter 4

Nemir woke just before dawn, as was his wont, but not feeling rested for once. Normally, he slept like the dead but he hadn't the night before for a number of reasons.  
  
First and foremost was the suffocating feeling of having been fenced in, both by the palace walls after years of sleeping in mostly tents or under the stars, and by society, which was now decreeing the path of the rest of his life. Growing up, he had reveled in the freedom he'd been allowed, if submitting to trainers and commanders could be called freedom, and he did. He'd know that one day that would end and he would be called on to fulfill the duties of heir, but he'd done his best to pretend otherwise. But now everything was being decided for him, from his marriage to his very companions.  
  
And that led to the second reason that he had not been able to sleep properly: The slave boy his father had purchased for him. The boy was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and as a result, someone whose simple presence would draw attention to *him*. No doubt, that was why his father had chosen him, to ensure that Nemir learned to deal with that attention quickly. The boy's freakish height, more than a handspan taller than Nemir, who was not a small man, and the eerie hair and eye color even drew Nemir's eye, despite his best efforts to ignore him. The breathing coming from the pallet in the corner sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent bed chamber. And this was to be his constant companion and only allowed bed partner until the day he was joined to a wife he'd never met.  
  
The lack of sleep had left Nemir feeling exhausted already, but he knew that there was no point in trying to sleep further. His lessons in the politics, diplomacy, literature and science that a prince needed to know would be starting immediately after the morning meal, so now was his best chance for some sword practice. He was *not* going to allow his skills to rust due to lack of use. He slipped from the bed and padded silently to the wardrobe for his practice leathers, not bothering with a robe to cover his nakedness.  
  
A small gasp told him that the boy was awake, but Nemir refused to acknowledge him. He dressed quickly and headed for the door to the suite.  
  
"Where are you going?" a soft voice asked. He wanted to ignore him, but basic courtesy would not allow it.  
  
"To spar before breakfast," he said, reluctantly turning around.  
  
The boy was sitting up on his pallet, wearing a dark nightshirt that covered his upper body but left his long legs bare to Nemir's eyes. He might have thought it an enticement to bedding if the boy was not so obviously innocent of guile.  
  
"May I come with you?"  
  
Nemir rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was a tagalong. "Don't you have other things you should do?" he asked sharply.  
  
"No."  
  
"Then *find* something!"  
  
The boy seemed to slump in on himself, his silver eyes looking to his lap. "I am not allowed to leave the suite unless it is with you," he said softly.  
  
"How long have you been here?" Nemir asked with a frown.  
  
"Eight days." The boy still would not look up, and Nemir castigated himself for taking his anger out on him. The suite was spacious, with four large rooms -- the bedchamber, an office, the receiving room and a bathing chamber -- but the concept of being confined to them for even a day was painful to him.  
  
"Fine," he said, and the boy's gaze finally flew up, surprise plain to see. "Well? Dress quickly! I won't wait long."  
  
He waited impatiently as the boy dressed, all in black again. "Don't you have anything in a different color?" he asked, although he had to admit that the effect was striking. Probably deliberately so.  
  
"It was all I was given," was the reply. A slave had no choice in what he wore, anymore than he had a choice in what he did.  
  
Nemir sighed, unable to hold onto his anger in the face of the boy's simple acceptance. "We'll deal with that this afternoon," he said, heading for the door again, the boy following silently. Mentally, he cursed his father for doing this to him, then quickly retracted the curses, praying that the gods had ignored his foolishness.  
  
It had been years since he'd lived in the palace on a regular basis, but the route to the practice yard was still burned in his memory. He'd lived in the same suite as a child, although his nurse had lived in the room that was now an office, and he'd spent much of his free time at the practice yard watching the guards train, fascinated by the grace and skill of their movements. His father had even come with him on occasion, and had been his first teacher, handing him a small wood practice sword when he was only five. His grandfather had still been alive then, and as merely heir, his father had had more time for his son. Nemir missed those days.  
  
He took the final turn and passed through the open doorway into the yard that sat on the eastern side of the palace. The palace ran along two sides of the yard, with the guard barracks on the third side. The open end led towards the stables. Even though the sun was barely above the horizon, the palace side was bathed in brilliant sunshine. There were warriors already drilling, and Nemir felt at home for the first time since his return to Ajantha the day before. He took a deep breath and appreciated the scents of dirt and dust and the sweat of honest men doing honest work. This was probably the only place in the palace where he would find such scents.  
  
He stepped forward, then paused when he realized that for the first time, his shadow was not following him. He turned and found the boy hugging the shadows. "What?" he snapped. "Afraid that they might tease you? Call you names?" he mocked.  
  
"No." The boy's voice was low, but firm. Nemir frowned. Why had the boy asked to come with him if he wasn't willing to follow all the way? Perhaps he was afraid of getting dirty.  
  
"Then what's the problem?"  
  
The boy hesitated, then took a step forward, holding his left hand out so that it was in direct sunlight. In the light of day, the pale skin was almost translucent, blue veins easily seen beneath it. Nemir could even see the faint shadows of the fine bones beneath the surface. He stood there, silent, for a long moment. Nemir was about to snap at him again when he noticed what was happening *to* that hand. Immediately, he pushed the boy back into the shadows, grabbing his hand. The back of it was burnt red and he could see small blisters forming already.  
  
Nemir had been burnt by fire in the past, and he knew that the boy had to be in great pain, but he did not make a sound, simply biting his lower lip until Nemir thought it would bleed. The fortitude necessary to stay silent impressed him, against his will.  
  
"Does this always happen?" he asked, horrified. The boy nodded.  
  
Nemir considered postponing his practice session, but was reluctant to do so. "Can you wait until later for some salve for that?" The boy nodded, and he couldn't help feeling a grudging respect. "All right."  
  
He led the boy down the hallway and around the corner into the open corridor that ran along the south side of the yard. A series of arches provided a view of the men sparring. In the evening, the nobles of the court would watch the guards fight in matches, betting on the outcomes, but this early in the day, the corridor was empty. And facing north, as it was, it was deep in shadow and would remain so the entire day.  
  
"Stay here, boy," he ordered, then hopped over the low wall that separated the packed earth of the yard from the marble of the corridor. "As soon as I'm finished, I'll get you some burn salve before the morning meal."  
  
"Judas."  
  
"What?" The single word, spoken softly but firmly, caught him off-guard.  
  
"My name is Judas, not 'boy.'"  
  
He grimaced, but said, "Fine. Wait here, *Judas*."  
  
As he strode over to the equipment racks for a practice sword, he found himself angry again, seemingly without reason. As he started to stretch, he finally realized why.  
  
The boy had a name. A nameless slave could be ignored. *Judas* could not. He glanced over to where the boy was waiting, a pale, ghost-like shadow out of the light of the sun. His burnt hand was held cradled against his chest, pale against the stark black of his tunic, but all of his attention was focused on Nemir. Nemir had never been the subject of such intense and personal scrutiny that he could remember. Ignoring him for the five years until his marriage was going to be more difficult than he had expected.  
  
Nemir turned away again and concentrated on stretching his hamstrings, then moved to the upper body muscles. When he was as limber as he was going to get, he selected a practice sword and moved out to a bare patch of earth and started the opening movements of the sword dance.  
  
And yet... his eyes kept turning south, to the boy, wondering just how he'd come to be here. High-born, his father had said, and yet also a slave. Soft and untrained in the arts of war, yet able to bear pain without protest. Born in the desert, where men lived in tents, yet unable to withstand the light of the sun. So many contradictions in one person. He was a puzzle, and Nemir had never been able to leave a puzzle lie.  
  
Then a guard approached him and offered to spar, so Nemir forced away all thoughts of his unwanted and unusual companion, retreating in the familiar, comforting dance of the sword.


	5. Chapter 5

Judas watched as Nemir bowed formally to another man dressed in the simple leathers of a soldier or a guard. They moved gracefully into set positions, dull metal practice swords held ready, and stopped.  
  
A moment later they were in motion and Judas could see why so many referred to sword-fighting as a dance. He also understood why his teachers at the house of Kemel had told him that he needed years of training before he would be considered a true dancer. The ease of the two men as they moved together, in concert and conflict at the same time, showed long years of training, and Judas felt a flash of jealousy. The same jealousy that he'd lived with all his life, the jealousy of those who could go out in the sunshine and do these things without fear.  
  
His hand still throbbed where he held it to his chest protectively. He ignored the pain, he and it being old friends. As a child, he'd left the safety of his tent several time, each time convinced that the Gods must have taken pity on him. Each time he'd been wrong. By the time he'd reached his manhood, he'd come to understand that the Gods were never going release him from his curse.  
  
But even though he'd given up on testing the limits of his curse, it was impossible for him to avoid the sun always. The tribe traveled from oasis to oasis with the herds, and he'd had to travel on horseback, swathed in robes to hide him from the sun. Unfortunately, a stray gust of wind might blow up his sleeves, or sweep back his face covering, and he'd be burnt before he could rearrange his clothing. He'd learned long ago to accept the pain and thereby ignore it.  
  
As he watched the two men battle, he began to see a different side to Nemir. It took him a while to realize what the change was, since he'd only known the young man for less than a day, but it finally struck him: Nemir wasn't angry. From the moment he'd looked up into the handsome face of the Prince's son, he'd seen nothing but anger.  
  
The anger hadn't been aimed at him, though. At least not personally. He was angry at Judas not as a person but as a concept. Judas could even understand it, a little. Nemir hadn't asked to be saddled with a slave ordered to dog his every step. He hadn't asked to be ordered to take that slave and *only* that slave to his bed.  
  
The thought of that made Judas shiver. He had no illusions about whether or not Nemir would do so, despite the man's protests. After all, Nemir was young and in his prime, a time when his sexual energies would be at their peak. Judas knew that sooner or later, Nemir would want sexual satisfaction. Self-pleasuring was not very satisfying, he knew from personal experience, and Nemir would either turn to him or someone else.  
  
Judas was not sure which possibility scared him more. His appearance meant that he was the only person in his tribe to reach his age of majority still a virgin, something he'd long resigned himself to, and during the brief time he'd spent at the House of Kemel being trained, the bed-arts was the one realm he'd not had any instruction in. He'd quickly learned that this was because a virgin commanded much higher prices. Nobles liked to... train their bed slaves to their own tastes, whatever those might be. As a result, he had no concept of what Nemir might want of him.  
  
If Nemir took someone else to his bed, he would not have to worry about that, but he would have to worry about *his* punishment would be. It had been made very clear to him that he was responsible for making sure that the Prince's son did not compromise himself, although he was not sure just what he could do to stop that. He had no illusions that if Nemir *did* go against his father's orders, the Prince would find out. Even in Nemir's quarters, Judas had never been alone during the time leading up to the master's return. Palace servants were everywhere and they saw everything. Nothing that Nemir -- or Judas -- did would remain a secret. It did not bother Judas. Living in tents all his life, surrounded by the constant attention of a tribe, he was used to the scrutiny of others. However, he did not think Nemir was as used to the attention, and he prayed that the man would learn soon.  
  
At least Nemir seemed to be an honorable man, not inclined to punish as slave for existing, and he doubted that Nemir would deliberately bring punishment down on his head either. The only real question was what might result from action not properly thought through.  
  
"And what have we here?"  
  
The unexpected voice made Judas whirl around. Other than the Prince and Nemir, no one had addressed him since his arrival at the palace. He'd been ignored by the servants as if he were just a part of the furnishings in Nemir's suite. He was not sure whether or not he should respond to the comment.  
  
He was even more unsure when he saw who had addressed him. He'd never seen the man, of course, but he was obviously noble-born. He wore ornate robes that proclaimed to the world that he'd never had to dirty his hands with work or even his own defense, since they would have hampered any attempt to do either.  
  
Instead, a guardsman in a bright -- but far less hampering -- uniform was a discreet distance away, watching Judas for any signs that he was a threat, and Judas would wager that a dozen or more servants waited on the man's every whim.  
  
Which begged the question: Why was he *here*?  
  
"Noble one," Judas said, bowing to the exact degree he'd been taught.  
  
The man walked a slow circuit around Judas. It was disconcerting to be examined this way, like a fine beast or costly statue being considered for purchase.  
  
The man came to a stop in front of Judas. The smile on his face seemed open and friendly, but Judas could see that it did not reach his eyes. "You would be the heir's new... companion," he said in a tone that verged on insulting.  
  
"Yes, noble one," Judas replied, determined not to look foolish in front of the man. He still wondered what the man wanted.  
  
"And a most unusual one at that," the man murmured, reaching out and not quite touching Judas's hair. There was a flash of an expression on his face that was equal parts calculating and covetous. Then it smoothed away to bland interest once more. And beneath it all, there was no sign that he truly saw Judas as a person. Another might not have noticed that, but it was a look that Judas knew all to well from the members of his tribe who thought of him as demon- spawn, when they dared to look at him at all.  
  
The man's eyes, which were still looking him up and down, came to rest on his damaged hand, still held to his chest protectively. "But you're injured!" he cried in apparent horror.  
  
Judas resisted the urge to hide his burnt hand behind his back. At the reminder, it set to throbbing, and a glance down showed that the skin was starting to crack and peel. "It is nothing," he said softly.  
  
"I disagree, poor boy. Come, let me take you to the healers."  
  
"That is not necessary, I assure you," Judas protested, glancing towards the practice yard. The man's eyes followed his gaze to where Nemir was still sparring, oblivious to what was happening in the shadowed corridor adjacent.  
  
"I'm sure that the heir would not object to you seeing the healers immediately," the man said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Judas's shoulder. "After all, a burn that severe must be excruciatingly painful."  
  
As if on cue, Judas's hand started to throb even more than before, and he had to fight back a cry of pain. He wanted to step away from the man, but the instructions drilled into him by his teachers at Kemel's told him that it would be considered a deadly insult.  
  
"Fair morning to you, Lord Morlan," Nemir said from the low wall that separated the corridor from the practice yard. His hair was matted and his skin glowed in the morning sunlight with the sweat of his exercise. Judas had not noticed him ending his spar or coming over to join them.  
  
Immediately, the man -- Lord Morlan -- stepped away from Judas. He breathed a well-hidden sigh of relief and relaxed. The pain in his hand started to subside again.  
  
"My lord heir," Morlan said, bowing in a way that verged on obsequiousness. Or insult. "I was just suggesting to your... companion that I take him to the healers, since he seems in great need of their services.  
  
Nemir glanced at him and he shivered, wondering if he would be in trouble for someone else's actions. It did not seem fair, but that was the lot of a slave, he knew.  
  
Then Nemir turned his attention back to the lord. "That is most kind of you, but also unnecessary. I will see to it myself as soon as I have scraped the sweat from my skin."  
  
"It would be no bother--" Morlan started to say, but Nemir cut him off.  
  
"I will see to it."  
  
Obviously recognizing the steel in Nemir's bland voice, Morlan bowed again. "As you wish, my lord heir."  
  
Nemir nodded and waited, pointedly, until the man excused himself and left, the guard following behind with n amused look. Then he turned back to Judas. "You should be more careful to whom you speak," he said icily.  
  
Judas stiffened in outrage. "I am a *slave*," he spat. "I do not have a *choice* in the matter." The voice of reason told him that speaking this way was a mistake, that he did not want to antagonize the man he was going to have to live with for at least five years, but his pride overrode self- preservation. Slave, he might be, but he still had his pride.  
  
Pride of the desert met the pride of a prince and soldier. Met and clashed through their glares. The sound of steel clashing from the practice yard was the perfect complement to the battle of wills.  
  
Surprisingly, it was Nemir who broke eye contact first. "Give me a moment to cleanse myself. Then we'll go to the healers to see to your hand," he said, then quickly headed away, going to where he'd left his tunic.  
  
Judas watched him go, his anger washing away as if it had never been. He waited, confused, as Nemir used a soft leather strap to scrape the sweat from his skin and wondered.  
  
Had he just won a battle or lost?  
  
END CHAPTER FIVE  
  
To Be Continued....

 


End file.
